Butterflies
by Nephren-Ka7
Summary: After John Connor's passing, Cameron carries on, as good as she can


**Butterflies**

I hope this little drabble won't annoy hardcore Jameron fans (as I am myself) all too much.

"I have been thinking." he declares.

A second ago he was softly kissing my bare belly, then started sucking at my navel, causing an quite agreeable tickle. Now he stops, laying his head flat onto my belly, his stubby cheek and thick, curly hair tickling my skin instead. I remain lying on my back motionless, waiting for him to continue.

"I think I can't go on like this."

I nodd slowly though he is unable to see it.

Having expected this I answer in a flat voice: "I understand."

My young lover turns around to look at me, lying on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows. He stares into the gloom at the point where he can just barely make out my face. I can see him squint and strain his eyes, he would find it easier if he had replaced his natural eyes with the in vitro "cat eyes" that are so popular with a lot of the young people today.

But he has selected to decline the offer, staying hundred percent unmodified. That's unusual in this city but he is a bit on the conservative side. I am as well, so I find it an endearing trait. I never was one for reckless experimenting.

Finally giving up in frustration he says: "Lights on."

When I programmed my home system to accept his commands I already strongly suspected that things would end like this. It was part of an half hearted attempt to make my boyfriend, if I can really call him that, more at home, entice him to stay just a little bit longer, seeing as I did enjoy the time we spent together, but in the end I just didn't care enough to make more than a token effort. As the light goes on he blinks a few times to get adjusted to it, then continues to stare at me, there is a hint of pain and sadness in his eyes, more than a hint in fact. He lifts his arm, reaching over to touch me, obviously desiring to slowly run a finger over the curves of my body like he used to do in the past, but deciding against it and letting his arm fall back onto the sheets. I sit up, feeling the sweatslicked hair stick to my back except for a few strains falling over my chest, half covering my breasts.

"You are going to leave me."

I say matter of factly, without a trace of emotion. With a deep sigh he burries his face in his hands before looking back at me. He tries to keep his face blank as well but fails miserably.

"Can you give me a reason for staying?" he asks with a raw voice.

He stops himself, unhappy about the wording and tries anew with a better formulation.

"Do you even want me to stay?"

"Yes."

I answer flatly, telling at least half of the truth. Yes, I am fond of him and have grown accustomed to his presence in my life but... I can't bring myself to care enough to really hold him back. The truth is, when he disappears out of my door, nothing will really change, the loss will not hurt me. My feelings of loneliness will get stronger again, but not by much, his presence being an inadequate balm for the bottomless, aching hole at the center of consciousness. But of course there never has been a chance that anyone or anything could fill this gaping abyss.

"Liar." he says bitterly.

I feel the impulse to defend myself against this accusation but I decline to do so. In a way he has aquired a right to be bitter. After all I have left him in the dark about his true place in my life for over two years. Perhaps it's just that my ability to feel empathy for others than my original, true family has grown, making me softer in general over the course of all this decades. He looks at me with honest curiosity.

"What am I for you, Cameron? Sometimes I think that you are just cold, but I know that that is not true. I mean, I have seen pictures of you with your family and I even met some of your old friends. And I have seen how passionate you are about your work and about everything that is important to you."

With a shake of his head he slumps back onto the bed, turning onto his back and staring at the dark wood of the bedroom ceiling. I edge closer to him and start stroking his arm. There is nothing sexual or erotic in my gesture, he is right, it just doesn't make sense to continue down that road. The real but at the same time definitely limited affection I feel for him is closer to that of an older, more experienced friend.

"I love you, I have told you a thousand times but you never once told me how you really feel about me."

Slightly accusing tone there, not undeserved.

"I never tried to pressure you in any way."

True enough.

"I was just grateful that you allowed me to be part of your life."

He throws up his hands.

"It's less the fact that you never confessed your undying love to me, I could live with that. It's more that you never made clear that you didn't have deeper feelings for me either. I mean, I could live with being just your "toy boy", but this lack of clarity... It's eating me up."

Guilty as charged. While you were more a pet than a partner for me, I still wanted to keep you around and avoided clarifying things to that effect. Quite selfish of me. That's the whole mystery. Of course you expected me to be mysterious, that has always been part of my allure, even for John, at least in the beginning. He quickly found out though, that I am quite a simple and uncomplicated creature at heart.

"You have been a good friend and companion." I say truthfully.

The answer consists of an indignated snort. My boy, still so immature, there is so much you have to learn yet.

"Yeah, and a fuck toy."

He winces even before the last word has entirely left his mouth. He seems to think that he has offended me but I never was one to take offense easily and he never came quite close enough to learn how to get through my thick chasis.

"I'm sorry, that was..."

I press a finger on his lips before he can finish the sentence.

"Everything you feared is true." I softly explain. "I had been terribly lonely for a very long time, I strongly wished for a warm body at my side, for arms to hold me and you were at the right, or wrong, place at the right/wrong time. But of course..." I put on a dry, little smile. "You seemed quite eager to take up a physical relationship, despite me giving you little reason to think that I would ever really return your feelings."

He slowly nodds with closed eyes, hiding a tear or two that are welling up. He is trying to act all tough and manly, taking the hard facts in stride. Cute.

As he opens his eyes again, they are mostly dry but slightly reddened, a sad smile pulling on the corners of his mouth.

"Did the fact that I love you ever mean anything?"

"It did. It meant a lot, more than you might think." I assure him correctly.

There was never any question on my part that I will never be able to truely love another, not for as long as I remain Cameron. But after more than sixty years, it felt good to have somebody who loved me, who adored and desired me, made me the center of his world.

A punishing wave of guilt crashes over me, as it regularly does, especially in moments like this. Forgive me John. I tried my best to to protect your and our legacy, to honor you and to be faithful to you. But forever is a long time, for everyone, human or cybernetic organism and the pain of your passing was killing me. Is still killing me.

I am dying every day that I spend without you, feeling alone even if I am surrounded by multitudes, by friends and allies. Even when our daughter is with me. But even though she fills me with great pride, the emptiness always remains, underlying everything. I can only hope that you will forgive me for the things I do to allevate the pain even a little bit.

Look at me, here I am, having almost convinced myself that you are still there in a completely illogical way, somehow able to hear my thoughts. In the unlikely case that it is really true, forgive me also for the worst and most cowardly of all possible betrayels. Forgive me that I once or twice almost wished that our love had never been, so that I would not have to suffer every day of my existance.

Now that I think about it, please don't forgive me. At least not if I ever should have such a thought again.

"Cam?"

I wince as I hear the short form of my name, spoken by a voice that is not the one that used to call me in this way, the voice I so desperately wish to hear.

"You looked like you weren't really there for a moment."

The voice of the young man I have betrayed my John with, full of deeply felt worry. For a nanosecond I hate him, want to crush his wind pipe, snap his neck like a dry twig. The moment passes and I remember that I have neither reason nor right to hate him, only myself, just as with the others that I have been with in the last ten years.

"I am sorry." I say, tilting my head slightly.

He seems to be relieved.

"Thank god, your are alright. I almost thought you had entered into stand by or something worse."

Stupid boy. I am nowhere near alright and I will never be. I shake of the irrational anger and try to banish the thoughts and images that plague me but the complete and voluntary control over my mental processes that I once had is long since history. A victim of the ever growing complexity of my being and my evolution into...what? A good question indeed. Perhaps bitter old hag would be a fitting description. And while I look not a day older then when I rolled of the conveyer belt, I certainly feel the decades on the inside, the successes and beautiful moments but also the failures and disappointments.

"Please, don't call me that."

His eyes widen in surprise and confusion before lighting up as he understands.

"Of course, that's what he used to call you."

"Yes." I confirm simply.

He laughs softly, with a portion of bitterness of course but also a measure of acceptance. Perhaps he is more mature than I thought.

"I just can't compete against his shadow, can I?"

"No." After thinking for a moment and him staring sadly, I add for emphasis. "There was never any competition."

Nodding he purses his lips and clicks his tongue.

"I guess, I always knew. This house, it's just full of his presence."

I started building this house almost thirty years after my John's passing but I decide against mentioning that. And in a way its true. John may have never actually lived here but it is certainly full of memories nontheless. I certainly tried to make it into a place where John would have felt at home. It's only the second best variety of course, but my duties here in the capital as a Senator prevent me from moving into the simple mountain hut in Canada that John would have favored over any fancy town house. Besides, John's "presence" is not stiffling shadow but a light that gives me guidance even if it sometimes burns a bit.

I ruffle my young lover's hair in an almost but not quite motherly gesture. It is really aesthetically pleasing hair and I have enjoyed burrying my fingers in it, that much I will readily admit.

"I respect you too much to tell you what to do, and I am under no delusions of being that special someone that one day will really get through to you, but... I just hope you don't unnessarily hurt yourself that way."

He shruggs helplessly.

"I mean, if John Connor was really that great a guy as you, and almost everyone, say he was, and I know of course that you knew him better than anyone, he certainly wouldn't want you to suffer forever for him."

Of course he wouldn't, that is not the problem. Now I am the one to smile sadly.

"My husband worked for decades to get me to build ties and connections with other people, encouraging me to and when I wasn't interested (which was often the case) sometimes even subtly manipulating me into making friends, discover things and activities that I liked, new responsibilities and relationships. He did that so that I would have other ties to the world in case of his passing, other reasons to live and be happy. As long as he was alive he worried that he was holding me back from developing my true potential, wrecking himself with guilt for causing me to suffer with his own death.

He wanted me to live on but he never made me promise it, because he didn't want to put pressure on me. He knew that I would have felt bound by my promise, but he didn't want to impose on my free decisions in any way. Worrying about my happiness in the future sometimes, fortunately only sometimes, even kept him from enjoying our time together to the fullest extent. The stupid, stupid idiot."

During my monologue my smile widens without my active voliation, sadness and bitterness starting to disappear almost magically, as I feel my old passion rise like a spring flood.

"My husband would never want me to be unhappy. He greatest hope was that I would find a way to be happy without him."

It is the truth, pure and simple. Of course I know on a purely rational level that John would never really condemn me for what I have done. But that doesn't keep me from feeling guilty. The sadness returns but it is no longer as all dominating as it was moments before.

"Unfortunately, I wasn't capable of realising his hope."

He remains silent for several seconds, thinking about what I told him with a frown on his brow.

"Sounds like he was always trying to get you to do what he wanted."

I chuckle softly, he is surprised to hear me laugh, something that, admittedly, doesn't happen all that often.

"Sometimes. But that is normal in a relationship. Most of the time he tried to get me to discover what I wanted and encouraged me to follow up on it. I really needed those little pushes, so I am very grateful for them. And of course I was very good at pulling his strings as well. We both gave as good as we got."

He is wise enough not to try to paint my husband in a negative light, something that would sooner or later rise my ire, no matter how much I may have mellowed out. I continue to drag my fingers through his hair, edging still closer and allowing him place his head on my lap.

"So, that's it?"

He sounds a bit confused as if it hadn't been him to take the first step towards ending our relationship. But I suppose he was nourishing some hope deep down that I would keep him from walking out. Sorry, no luck there. But according to statistics he has almost hundred and fifty more years to look forward to and the very flightiness of human feelings will work in his favor, opening a boundless, open world full of adventures, romance and exitement. And in the end, watching humans and their relations for over a century now, very few of them seem capable or even really interested in living the "eternal" love, that they often like to gush about. Of course, if someone could have pulled it off, it would have been my John.

"That's it." I simply confirm.

Now after all those decades time has come, that my remaining, close friends of the human variety are one by one passing away. Old Age is finally catching up with them after the break throughs in medicine that humans and machines have made possible together, has expanded life expectancy to double of what was average in wealthy developed countries before Judgment Day. Despite the exuberance and overoptimism especially on the human side (machines just don't tend to get carried away that much), true immortality has prooved as ellusive as it always has been.

That's definitely one more reason I can't conjure up any energy to play drama queen. The death of Savannah Weaver at the proud age of one hundred and fourty four years, just one and a half month ago, has hit me harder than the loss of the young man who has shared part of my life, and my bed, for a bit over two years ever could. Still he has kept me good enough company to merit a degree of gratefulness and respect. The chrono on my HUD informs me that it is almost time to get to work. Today several meetings are waiting for me both work related and of the private kind. He stands up.

"I will go pack then."

"Do you know were you can sleep tonight?" I ask, feeling somewhat responsible.

He turns towards me with a boyish grin that does little to hide the sadness in his eyes.

"In this town? There is always someone ready to offer shelter to a breadless, wandering artist."

He tries to sound cocky but the swagger doesn't entirely compute. He is right though, there is no reason to be overly concerned. At least at the public shelters there is always a warm bed for the night and a gifted musician like him will quickly find access to, well everywhere.

"There no longer are any really breadless artists." I correct him good naturedly. "No citizen of the World Federation has had to starve for the last fifty years, well, at least not from an objective lack of food. Incidents like a crazy man locking his familiy in the cellar to starve them, a lonely old woman dying of thirst after a stroke and a religious sect that commited mass suicide by refusal of nourishment in their isolated village community don't count."

He rolls his eyes, looking heavenwards excesperatedly.

"Your strange sense of humor. I will miss it terribly."

Abstaining from informing him that I am quite serious, I reflect for a split second on the fact that after more than a century amongst humans it still occurs with some regularity that people find things I say humorous for reasons that I have difficulty to grasp. Either way, this time the smile reaches his eyes and I am happy that we part ways as friends.

"I just wanted to point out that for all imperfections we have created a world, that is as close to post scarcity as a limited planet can ever hope to come, were starvation is a thing of the past together with many other ills." I cite verbatim from a speech I made sixty five years ago as the first machine ever democratically elected to public office by the human population of the Federation.

"Yep. And that is to a good part your accomplishment. So I thank you in the name of all formerly breadless artists. But while while we may no longer have to literally starve, the hunger for attention has lost nothing of it's bite. We artists are all egomaniacs, after all."

He stands and stretches, showing off his well built body, not that it makes any impression on me.

"You know, I really thought I would be angry at you. But now I find that to be almost impossible. I don't know if it's your endearing personality or just the fact that I love you too much to think bad of you, even when you kick me out."

You have only just begun to understand what love means, I think.

Out loud I say: "I'm not kicking you out. If it were necessary I would gladly allow you to stay some more. But I am certain that you are right, you will find your way and you can look forward to a promising career."

"Perhaps you will one day come and listen to a live concert of mine?" He asks hopefully, grinning slightly.

He has already regained his good humor, I think approvingly. There is already enough sadness for both of us in my metaphorical heart.

"Of course, I wouldn't miss that opportunity." I say with a brief grin of my own.

He slaps on his trousers and goes in search of his few belongings. I guess he will shed a few more tears over me while having a cold beer or three. Than he he will get over it rather quickly, at least over the pain. He will remember though. And I will have made a positive contribution to his life.

My young friend is indeed talented, that, more than anything else, caught my eye in the first place. My deep love of dance and also of music in all it's manifold expressions has led me to give many promising dancers and musicians a little nudge in the direction towards fame. I will continue to have an eye on his progress from afar.

I have never really parted in bad blood from any of the young people who have shared my path with me over the last few years and I am glad that the trend seems to continue. Perhaps he will mention me in his memoirs as his muse when he is famous, an amusing thought but I can live equally well with that never happening.

I go to the bath and take a shower, than I quickly dress for the day. My driver waits for me at the preagreed time. He is an unaugmented human but always so dependable and punctual, he could be called a honorary machine. Meetings 7.30 to 12.30, Lunch with some colleagues (I will have a salad), meeting some Community Representatives from Latin America from 13.30 to 17.00, than a free hour, the most important hour of the day, where I will got to the cemetary to pay my beloved a short visit, than back to office to work on an agreement to improve trade between the freetowns on the east- and the westcoast. I'll get back home at about 22.00, a very long day, even by my standards. After getting home I will spend the rest of the night dancing, writing, perhaps composing a little bit and preparing for the next day. My thoughts wander to my young former lover one last time as my driver starts the car.

He will be long gone by the time I return home, dancing on like a butterfly. I wish him the best of luck once more and concentrate on the important things.

**The end**


End file.
